The Pale Panther
by JuicyWizard
Summary: On average, only 3 boys out of 10 survive the Trial of the Grasses. It is rare that a fourth comes to pass. It is also rare that any Witcher becomes a White One, such as Geralt or Cirilla. Morvir did both.


Morvir was always well-read. He spent the dry days outdoors, studying the world, and the wet days indoors, studying what others had already discovered about the world. But he was soon disappointed. His books ran out, became boring. He had access only to books he'd already read, already knew, and he dared not venture beyond what he'd already studied. So, he became bored. When new bits of information came along, he'd pounce on it like the mountain cats he'd read about. Then it was over, and he'd hunger for more. Then someone came through. A merchant, a traveling blacksmith. He carried a worktable, wares, and materials in a cart, and he claimed he could craft anything unnatural.

But Morvir had just read a book on all things sword: crafting and materials, fighting and form, maintenance and enhancements. So, he asked him.

"Can you craft a sword out of stone? Can you oil and polish it just perfectly so it holds edge and shape longer than the lifespan of the man wielding it?"

And the smith had snorted, and said, "Nobody can, kid."

Morvir knew that it was possible. He'd read about several ways it was possible. So, he argued. As he was accustomed to doing in this rat of a town. "But it can be done! You said you could craft anything."

This time, the smith laughed wholly. "It can be done? Ha! I'd sooner believe Nekkers exist."

And once again, Morvir recalled his reading. Nekkers did exist. But, he didn't argue again. Clearly this man was too obtuse to realize the truth. He simply shook his head, stole a longsword from the back of the wagon, and wandered back to his house. The entire village was just like the traveling smith. They were stupid. They couldn't read, let alone comprehend what they did. And they were somehow both close-minded and superstitious. Morvir had spent eleven long years arguing, trying to educate the villagers. They wouldn't listen. For the first five years of his life, his mother had been there to reassure him.

"You're important, and smart," she would say. "You'll show this rabble, I know it." And she'd continue to say it as she lay on her deathbed through Morvir's sixth year of life, and they were her last words before she slipped to the void. Morvir had been alone from then on. The fond memories of his mother were overtaken by people like the smith.

"I'd sooner believe Nekkers exist." The contemptuous jest echoed through Morvir's mind. "I'd sooner believe Nekkers exist."

* * *

The traveling smith tried to leave behind the unsettling boy, but the memory followed him. As he'd jested about the fiction of Nekkers, the boy had looked up at him with frustrated near-amusement. He'd looked at him like he knew something, like Nekkers _did,_ in fact, exist. He shrugged the thought off and entered the woods outside the hamlet. As the sun set and the shadows fell over the woods, the smith heard gurgling growls and hisses. He looked around frantically, then finally decided to leap into his wagon for a weapon. As he did, a Nekker jumped from the woods. It looked exactly as his Da had described it in the stories. It was a vile goblin of a thing, with mud- and bloodstained hands and feet, 9-centimeter long claws on both, nasty, jagged, razor-sharp yellow teeth, glowing red eyes, and an awful overhang of skin and fat below the bloody chin. The one leapt from the trees and spooked the horse, but it was already on the wagon with the smith. More jumped from the forest, clinging to the wooden structure, even as their legs were shredded by the rapidly turning wagon wheels.

"I'd sooner believe Nekkers exist," he'd said. Not an hour later, he was slaughtered by them.

* * *

Morvir had been out in the wild for nearly a year. He'd gathered, hunted, and fought for survival, using his knowledge to his advantage. Currently, he was prowling the woods. He'd been stalking a group of bandits leading a wagon, waiting for an opportunity to take supplies. Now seemed the time. Five had split from the initial group of ten. One was in a copse of trees defecating, two were arguing over their route some way from the wagon, and the other two were still piss-drunk from the night before; they wouldn't wake up for a while. Morvir crept forward, hand on his sword, watching his target carefully. This was a bag, full of fruit and bread. Why they were in the same bag he didn't know, but it would serve him well. His second target was the box of wine nearer to the front of the wagon. He would stow his food before he came back for drink, though. He took the bag and turned, but found a blade at his throat. At its hilt was the bandit, supposed to be in the trees. It appeared his business was through. Morvir looked him in the eye with a pleading look, and glanced at the others with panic in his eyes. The blade wavered, and Morvir took advantage. He slapped the bandit's sword away and drew his own, running the much older man through before he could finish the word "what."

Before the others could turn, Morvir snatched the box of wine and sprinted from the wagon. As he looked back, though, he saw the horses being cut loose and wheeled around toward him. They would overtake him in an instant. So, instead of wasting energy running, he stopped and took two bottles from the box. The two riders neared, and he hurled one. It smacked the horse's face, and it panicked and bolted. The bandit was left in the dust. The second bottle soared, and shattered over the next rider's head. He slumped in the saddle, leaving the horse to slow down and meander toward a patch of grass. The first bandit, not unconscious, stood with a club in his hand. Morvir drew his sword, but then realized that the other two bandits had awoken and were joining their confidant. He wouldn't stand a chance against three people at once. He backed up, making sure the two clubs and one axe were within view at all times, keeping his stance defensive. One of the clubs flickered out, with a charging bandit behind it. Morvir deflected the club to one side, letting the bandit's momentum carry him into the sword point. The other two stepped back, very discouraged after watching a twelve-year-old dispatch one of their friends so easily. The one with the axe crept forward cautiously. That was also a mistake. Morvir met him head-on, slamming his blade down on the axe and driving it into the ground. From there, he cut the bandit's left knee from under him and clove halfway through his neck. But he was a bit distracted. The third bandit appeared from behind and smacked Morvir upside his jaw. Morvir fell onto his back, his vision blurry and ears ringing. He heard multiple sets of footsteps, now, and knew that the other five had joined the one. Now he had no chance whatsoever.

Then, something magnificent happened. Morvir heard a whinny, and swift hoofbeats ensued. Through the tears in his eyes he could see a pale silver shape on top of a brown horse, and warm blood splattered his face and neck. He finally rose, dashing the blur from his eyes and picking up his sword. In front of him were five live bandits and one additional dead one. Behind them was a lone rider. His mount was equipped with a racing saddle, large saddlebags, and the head of a basilisk. The rider on top was dressed in an old-style fitted armor, made mostly of leather. He had knee-high leather boots with hardened leather over it. The trousers were of a thick cotton or linen. The cuirass was made of hardened leather with chainmail lining it. The black leather gloves were studded with steel on the knuckles, and had multiple layers. On his back was a bright polished longsword with a V-shaped cross guard, a hand crossbow, and a hunting knife. In his hand was another longsword, but less bright. all of this equipment, and yet the most striking part of the rider was the face and hair. A long, nasty scar ran down over his left eye, and several more striped his features. His nose was long and thin, his mouth grim within his beard. His hair was frosty white, the picture of blank. His eyes were the opposite. They were bright orange and yellow, structured like those of a cat. This man was a Witcher. And not just any Witcher. The facial features, the horse. This was The Butcher of Blaviken. Morvir wanted desperately to learn his real name, but he felt that he wouldn't have any luck.

As the Butcher wheeled his horse around again, the bandits forgot him and turned around. Morvir took the advantage, slicing two of them down before another turned to face him. Morvir was backed up, defending desperately. Obviously this was a more experienced bandit, perhaps a trained soldier or deserter. Morvir finally sidestepped a wild swing, saw the Butcher slash the last two bandits down, and beheaded the deserter. As the deserter fell, so did Morvir. He fell to his knees and bowed his head to the Butcher, hoping not to be killed among them. With his eyes down, all Morvir saw was the horse's hooves stop in front of him, and the Butcher's boots hit the ground. He wanted desperately to look up, but he didn't know what might happen.

A low, war-weathered and rough voice rang out. "Up."

Morvir looked up at the cat eyes and pushed himself to his feet.

"Get on," The Butcher said, motioning toward his mount. When Morvir hesitated, he spoke again. "I can see you're alone out here, and you aren't bad at surviving your solitude. You're coming with me to Kaer Morhen, and you're becoming a Witcher."

* * *

Morvir and the Butcher of Blaviken rode into Kaer Morhen at sunrise the next day. There was a line of nine boys similar in age to Morvir outside, and a younger female Witcher stood before them quietly. Morvir dismounted and lined up, as he thought he should. The young Witcher began speaking.

"I am Cirilla, and I'm sure you all know who Geralt is." Cirilla motioned toward the Butcher. "We are starting right now. First half of your day will be spent with Geralt working on your physical strengths, second half with me working on your mental ones. Then you will be sleeping for eight hours. After the first month, your sleep will be shortened to seven hours. Through the third month is six hours, fourth is five, fifth is four, and during the last month of your training here you will be allowed two hours of sleep a day. After that is the Trial of the Grasses, then three months of Contracts in the rest of the continent, then return for the Trial of Dreams and your becoming Witchers proper. Let's begin."

* * *

The next three months consisted of hard work and nothing more. They were grueling, and torturous. Then, suddenly, Morvir could relax. It was as though everything became ten times easier, or even more. Apparently, the training had paid off. His sessions with Geralt had put him in shape, and he no longer felt the deathly pain and exhaustion from the immense physical exertion. He was more than fit, he was strong. He was a Witcher. At least he was about to be. After those first three months, Witcher training was extremely easy. The theory exercises with Cirilla had been easy from the start. Finally, the last day of training came. It was time for the Trial of the Grasses. They were lined up, but Morvir was still returning from the privy. He arrived a few seconds late and took a place at the end of the line. Geralt walked up to the first boy, Krain, and gave him three bottles.

"These are the Grasses. You are to inject them in order: Mother's Tears, Wildrye Juice, and Speargrass Sap. If you become too weak to administer the next, you will be assisted. Is everyone clear?" There was a chorus of affirmatives. "Good. Only three of you will survive. Perhaps more, perhaps less. But statistically," Geralt paused and looked at Cirilla, then back at the row of boys. "three and two ninths of you will survive. You will all feel the most immense, torturous, horrible pain you will ever feel, but three of you will pull through and become all but Witchers. Earlier you were all injected with decoctions, as preparation. Now we shall see who survives."

Krain used the Grasses in order, and immediately vomited and collapsed. He continued to sweat, shudder, cry out, while the second boy was given the bundle. This boy didn't pale, didn't sweat, didn't collapse. He just stood there. Then he clutched his chest and collapsed, completely still. The third boy fell to his knees with an expression of pure horror, as though he'd witnessed his beloved murdered. His eyes glazed over and turned to those of a blind man. The fourth boy froze, shivered, then choked and curled into a tight ball on the ground, muttering and whimpering. The fifth boy, halfway through chewing the Knotted Grass, spat blood, put on a face of disgust, and screamed as he fell to the ground. The sixth boy stood there calmly after he consumed the grasses, then leapt, tore at his clothes, and fell to his hands and knees, pounding the cobbles. The seventh boy choked up blood and held his stomach. The eighth boy had the same reaction as the first. The ninth turned to Morvir and clawed at his face, before choking and falling to the ground, still. Geralt gave Morvir the bundle of herbs, and he looked them over. He ate the herbs as he'd been instructed. There were no immediate effects, but he felt something odd in the roots of his hair. Then, it started. The pain was staggering, and he fell back onto a pile of hay. Black invaded the edges of his vision as he felt thorns course through his veins. He breathed daggers, and wondered how hay could feel so much like fire. Tears filled his eyes and spilled over, and he probably would've drooled were his throat and mouth not so unbelievably dry. He couldn't see anything but black, and wondered how he could possibly survive this.

* * *

The pain lasted for years.

Not really, but the three days that it did last were agony enough to feel like decades. The intensity had subsided to the point of a terrible headache and the feeling of extensive sunburns across his whole body. His bones and muscles ached, and he could feel his hair growing, his bones expanding. It hurt. His stomach boiled. He could see every light, hear everything, feel every movement, smell everything, taste the scents, and all contributed to his headache. Suddenly, two of the five boys stood simultaneously. After a few moments, a third one did, too. That was it. Morvir was dead. Only three boys survived this, and they were already reporting to Geralt. Then, Morvir realized that the pain was gone. He stood, prepared to fall back down again, but it didn't happen. He was done. He realized, too, that he could still see, hear, smell, feel, and taste everything, but it wasn't painful. The last boy died on the spot. The other three boys, along with Geralt and Cirilla, looked at Morvir. They were looking above his eye line, though, and he knew they were looking at his hair. It had paled from blonde to white. They all bowed slightly and chorused, "White One."

Morvir was a White Witcher, like Geralt and Cirilla. "As you know," Geralt said, "White Witchers have titles. I'm the White Wolf, Ciri's the Swallow, like her sword. Who are you?"

Morvir didn't even have to think. "The Pale Panther."

"Good choice."

Cirilla stepped forward with four silvered longswords and handed one to each of the boys.

"As you all may have noticed," he said, "you have all undergone some mutations. You have advanced senses, reflexes, strength, speed. These will serve you well on your three months of contracts. If you are not here in three months and four days, it will be assumed you are dead. We will move on without you, and you will not become a full Witcher. Go!"

* * *

The three months were almost over, and Morvir hadn't even finished one contract, yet. He had accepted one in Novigrad for a Foglet, but hadn't found it. He'd tracked, scented, searched homes, asked questions, and finally found out that it was a doppler. It was just a shapeshifter. But that had made it massively difficult to find him. He had no distinctive scent, or scar, or voice, or foot size. Nothing.

There.

Morvir had been prowling the streets, looking for the doppler. And now he saw it. The foglet. Morvir dropped from the rooftop he crouched on and stepped in front of the beast. It instantly turned back to a man, but Morvir was done. He'd tracked this thing too long. He stabbed the doppler in the throat and turned to find the man who'd give him his reward.

* * *

Morvir returned alone. It was the day before he was supposed to return, and he was at Kaer Morhen alone. He knelt in the courtyard and began meditating. He meditated until he heard someone kneel next to him. He opened his eyes and saw Krain there. It was the next day already, and he was rejuvenated.

"All right. You two are the only survivors, as far as I'm concerned," Geralt said, appearing from a building. "Time for the Trial of Dreams."

It was a simple trial. Not difficult. The two Witchers had only to dispel sleep from their list of needs, and normal food. They no longer required common sustenance, and never slept. Their eyes changed, a pretty painless happening, into the signature cat-like witcher eyes. At this point, Morvir looked strikingly like Geralt, but his beard was less full. Geralt stepped forward and grasped Krain's forearm in a sort of handshake, and did the same with Morvir. Finally, Geralt handed them the signature double-sheath of the Witchers, and their wolf amulets.

"There. You're dismissed," Geralt said. "Go and fulfill your destinies as Witchers."

* * *

Morvir rode into Crow's Perch, and was immediately turned away.

"No room for your kind here, Witcher!" a citizen said. But Morvir didn't dismount, nor did he stop. He rode right up to the man, dropping from the saddle while still in motion.

"Why the hate for Witchers?" he asked sarcastically. He knew that people looked down on his kind. He wasn't surprised.

"One of you rode in earlier, the blasphemer."

"How earlier? Did he accept a contract?"

"He did. But instead of coin, he said he'd take something I didn't have yet."

Morvir remembered Geralt telling a near identical story. "Let me guess-he seduced your wife and ploughed your daughter?"

"That's exactly right! How'd you know that?"

"I've heard of him. When did he accept the contract?"

"Yesterday."

"And he's not back yet?"

"No. Certainly not."

"He's no Witcher. I'll take care of it, and your monster. What is it?"

"Werewolf. But not your regular werewolf. Seen it with me own eyes, I have. Turns from a wolf to a werewolf, on the full moons."

Morvir thought for a moment. "Direwolf. Only transforms on full _and_ new moons. In fact, it's a new moon tonight. I'll need to find that fraud before he gets himself killed." Then, as almost an afterthought, he muttered, "though it wouldn't be so bad if he did..."

"So you'll find these killers?"

"Let's talk reward first. Unlike your fake Witcher, I'll accept coin. How much are you offering?"

"I've saved up for the contract, 200 crowns."

"That's quite a sum, for a werewolf. But a Direwolf is quite a more dangerous matter. Give me that and half again."

"300? No. 200 was a stretch as it was."

"Oh. It was my understanding you wanted your problems solved, but it appears I was mistaken." Morvir turned to walk away.

"Wait!"

Morvir stopped, and the man spoke again.

"I'll give you 250."

"No, you'll give me 300."

"Fine! You Witchers really are heartless."

Morvir nodded and turned around. The false Witcher was easy to find. He had stolen or grave-robbed a Witcher amulet, and Morvir's own was pulled toward it like a magnet. He found the fake Witcher up a tree, with his steel sword sticking from a werewolf's shoulder. No, not a werewolf. A Direwolf. Morvir stepped forward and swung at the Direwolf, but it had smelled him. It whipped around, attacking viciously. Morvir rolled aside and came up with a powerful swing, and managed to catch the hilt of the other man's sword. The thing spun and twisted on its way out, rending the flesh of the Direwolf's left shoulder far, far beyond repair. It whimpered and howled, staggering, and Morvir caught the sword on its way down in his left hand, planning to use it far more effectively than this bastard had. As the Direwolf tried to recover from its ghastly wound, Morvir charged forward and ran it through with both swords.

"You're a real Witcher!" Morvir heard from the trees.

Morvir remembered when Geralt had told his story of this same situation, and responded in a similar way. "What gave it away? That I didn't piss my trousers at one lousy Direwolf?"

"Well..."

Morvir grew angry, then, and he knew why. He was a White Witcher, and as such he wasn't devoid of _all_ emotion. Only the most intense of emotions showed through, and they showed through mildly. The fact that he felt great anger meant that he was _really_ angry. He drew his steel sword very abruptly and beheaded the fraudulent Witcher, then took his amulet. Morvir set off toward the village to receive his payment, cautious though the wolf was downed. The pack might still have been there. Turned out they weren't, or at least didn't want to dance with a Witcher. Morvir made it back to town unaccompanied by threats, and strolled up to the contract giver.

"I'll take my payment, now."

"Of course you will," the man complained. "You're a Witcher." Having said this, he handed over a coin purse. But it wasn't the amount agreed upon.

"You've tried to cheat me too many times." Morvir said, his anger for the fake Witcher still simmering. "Give me the full amount." Before the man could, though, Morvir ran him through and took his entire coin purse. "Thanks, be on my way, now."

With that, Morvir turned around and whistled his way out of town, ignoring the shouts from behind him.


End file.
